The Perilous All Around Me
by Mel like Mellow
Summary: Pam/Andy/Jim friendship. A collection of one-shots, spanning their few years together at Dunder Mifflin. 'Cause they are friends ... more or less. Right? Spoilers for seasons 3 - 6.
1. 15 Minute Break

**The Perilous All Around Me**

_15 Minute Break_

It's like this big, gaping hole in my chest. A sucking wound that surely must be oozing fluids like emotion. I'm getting better, I think, but I really can't stand it at all. It's a scab I'm constantly picking away at, whether I'm tucked behind my desk or hidden in my tiny apartment. How is it that I manage to hit my alarm clock and crawl out of bed and slip on my stockings and clip my hair like I really care, to find all the effort to function during the day… It's astounding to me, sometimes, what the human body and heart can go through. It's really all kind of fascinating when you think about it.

This pressure, everywhere, between my heart and my ears, when he's near me - why do I even bother to settle in my uncomfortable chair, click away at FreeCell, and go on like it's no big deal? Like less than a year ago, he didn't declare his love for me in the parking lot just outside the window, mere feet away from where I park my new fuel-efficient, Single Girl car.

Is that just what we're made of? Acceptance and denial, everything trivialized just so we can save face? Because we have to. Or because we should?

It makes me think that he once lived like this. Didn't he? Every day I was with Roy, was this how he felt? Was this that agonizing, exhausting pull on his heart? The same one I feel every time I see him and her together, laughing like they've been best friends for more years than _we_ were, smiling in ways that _we_ shared. It all seems so "once upon a time" - I hate thinking like that, having to remember that it wasn't all that long ago that he would wander up to _my_ desk and pick at jelly beans and pretend not to look at me like _that_.

I try to tell myself his smile doesn't meet his eyes when he laughs with her, but I really never get a good enough look at his face to tell anymore. And frankly, it doesn't matter if he's smiling at her or in general; it doesn't look the same to me anymore, regardless.

But if he could do it, I could do it, right? Sometimes I feel this little nudge of guilt, because he faces away from me. My longing settles between his shoulders and at that place on his neck where his hair starts to curl in that unruly, unforgivably adorable way. When it was on the other foot, he had to have it worse off; he faced me. And that's really kind of poetic, in a terrible sort of way. The literal interpretation of it, I mean. Here I am, willing enough to gaze idly from afar, like some kind of impersonal spectator, but not outwardly acknowledge what's always been there between us – I mean, what used to be there. He, however, accepted it and openly welcomed it, faced it every day and told me, upfront and personal, in innumerable ways.

Yeah, there are days when I sit there, content to just share the same space with him. On those rare occasions where he chooses to remember I exist, I feel thankful typically. Sometimes I feel flustered, or worried that it won't last (it usually doesn't.) Then there's the fleeting anger that makes me purse my lips and turn back to my computer, as though digging up that Ace of Spades tucked between the Nine of Hearts and King of Spades is really worth spiting him so unkindly. Not that I don't find my own olive branches spurned, mind you. I offer a grape soda; he waggles a bottle of water, like he's so new and shiny.

Then there's days like today. I don't like to bring this into work, but sometimes it chases my heels right through the doors and dances fitfully in my stomach until I have to remove myself from his presence. I'm sitting in the farthest corner of the break room, a tissue torn between my fingertips, a sniffle caught up in my nose. It hurts too much to find the necessity to conceal it today. It's painful, but I actually find myself praying that he doesn't care enough to notice. He had snuck up behind her and goosed her, and she shrieked on a giggle that made my cheeks and ears burn. It was an intimate sound that, for whatever reason, was just too much to take today. I think it might have to do with that (tacky) lime-green lingerie set that's probably thrown across his bedroom floor.

So, I'm sitting in the back, away from the blatantness of them, secure in my misery alone.

The door opens, and I start with a hiccup. When Andy hollers an off-putting "Heyyo!" I rethink myself and figure that perhaps I should've reconsidered the depth of my pain to expose it so publicly. I glance away from his attempt at a charming grin, down at the shards of thin paper that have fallen in my lap. I hope desperately that he pushes those buttons on the microwave quickly, that it only hums for five seconds and _dings!_ and that he turns right back through that door with a jaunty whistle that makes my skin crawl.

Of course, this is reality. Nothing ever goes my way, just because I want it, and he utters something worrisome and I hear his mug clink on the table in front of me. I shut my eyes tight enough to feel the bridge of my nose wrinkle and the familiar tingle of tears inches into senses. Not now, not now, it's not important... I repeat this to myself as the legs of his chair scratch along the floor. I glance up and blearily make out his concerned face, and for a minute, his warm hand on my shoulder feels like Jim's should be there.

"Pam, hey, now," Andy hushes in a tone that suggests he's some friend comforting another friend. I'd laugh if I wasn't so wound up in the wretchedness of me and them already.

"I'm sorry, I should go--" I stutter, my hand barely gesturing toward the door as I begin to scoot away.

He scoffs and plants a firm pat to the curve of my shoulder once more. "Naw, it's aaall good! The 'Nard Dog's dealt with plenty of weepy women in the workplace." He juts his chin out proudly and rights himself in a ridiculously rigid way that makes me half-chuckle. "Lay it on me, my lady fair. Let's get this issue resolved."

"No, no," I sniff, trying to flash him an apologetic smile. He's trying to be nice and I'm not in the mood to shun him (how does Dwight even keep that up?) "I'm just being, uhm--"

Thankfully, there is some sense under that illogical exterior he usually displays, and he conjures it up for this moment. Andy gives one quick nod of affirmation and twists his mouth to the side. "Say no more. I shall leave you to your woes alone, if that is what you wish." He makes to rise then pauses, turning back to me with an afterthought. "Oh, but, uh ... look, while I get the chance?" I barely glance up, enough to catch his furrowed brow and loose lower jaw. "I just wanted to, uh, apologize."

"For what?" My voice sounds cracked; I hate that damsel-y catch to it. How embarrassing.

"Well, that whole ... banjo serenade _thang_ a while back, around when I first started?" He jerks his thumb backward, in the direction of the main room. "Kelly K and I were havin' a chat, and she told me all about your break-up with that dude from the warehouse, your ex-fiancé?" I blanch and look away. "I swear, Tuna did _not_ tell me anything about that and it was kind of rude of me." He pauses, "Kind of rude of Tuna, actually."

Maybe it's the ridiculous nickname Andy has bestowed upon him that I still don't know the meaning behind (and that hurts so much that he hasn't told me yet), or maybe it's the memory of the comfort I felt when I caught Jim's eye that day, his gaze wide with mischief that suggested some semblance of normalcy, or maybe it's the mention of the break-up and how the new people (the two of them) probably know almost everything now. But I think it's when I see the grape soda button on the vending machine that I crumple and duck my head, a new rush of hot tears spilling up.

"Oh, god, Pam, I'm sorry--" He's actually sincere, grimacing over his misstep as he hovers next to me. "I _so_ didn't know! This is why I-- God, I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have even brought it up." Andy sighs heartily and shakes his head, looking for a second that he almost might dissolve like I have.

There's heavy silence that follows, except my sniffling and the heavy puffs of his breath from what I assume to be anxiety as he observes me recollecting myself. The weight of it; I already know what's coming. Even if I wish it wouldn't. But it has to. Before it gets here, I wonder momentarily if Jim ever treaded this ground --

And then it's here. "Have you ever hurt so much from someone, that you just don't know if you can make it one more day?" My voice is quiet. I feel like I'm the room, looking down at me sitting there with Andy, and it feels kind of sticky to think about. He doesn't move, but I think I hear him whisper 'Jamie' as I shake my head, I can't believe that I keep talking, "That if you see them again, your heart's just going to-- to fall out of your chest, or you're going to get sick right there in front of them, or ... do _this_," a self-deprecating laugh catches in my throat as I wave my shorn napkin just above the table's edge. His gaze follows my hands back down to my lap.

"I hate that it got so messed up and that I have to, like, admit it now. I mean, not out loud," except for now, I roll my eyes at myself, "but, like ... _here_." I glance up and out, toward the door, scaring myself suddenly when I wish for him to come in and hallucinate briefly that he does. I quickly look back down at my pinched napkin. "I mean, between us."

The finished quiet remains hanging in the air, and I retrace my sentiments and blush as I realize that Andy actually looks kind of pensive. "I'm sorry," I rush on a breath when the moment has drawn on too long, jerking my chair back to make it squeal against the floor. "I shouldn't have even--"

"No, hey," his head snaps up, his palm gesturing for me to slow down. "I get it, Pam, seriously. Sometimes you gotta, y'know, unload." I remember he's been to anger management courses, that maybe he knows what he's talking about. After all, anger and sadness aren't too far off from one another, right? "I mean, that's, _whew_," he exhales a shaky chuckle, eyeing me like he's got this great new level of insight on me. It makes me blush harder and stare at my bitten nails. Wondering why I even told him any of this – anything. "That's pretty heavy stuff right there."

"Yeah..."

"But, y'know," his voice catches a high lilt, as though he has wisdom to impart, "You should kind of look at it like it's empowering. Like, 'hey, yeah, I screwed up, but I'm better for it.' A learning process or something." Andy tries to meet my gaze, but I won't let him in so far. "Y'know, growth. I mean, it's better than running away or hiding from him, right?" He chuckles the last part of his statement as he rises to his feet, collecting his mug from the far end of the table.

I feel bad for him, suddenly. If not for simply detracting him from warming his coffee, then at least for choosing to 'unload' on him when he is, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger. I look up at him as he shuffles awkwardly, like he's waiting for me to come along. I offer a tiny smile and nod slowly. His advice isn't entirely wrong, and I'm temporarily amazed that he could salvage my vague, melancholy confession enough to draw up an equally vague, yet overall satisfying response. Andy genuinely smiles, it's warm and honest, and he turns away from me with a half-bow of his torso. I don't get up, but I follow him out of the room with my eyes.

In my head, I repeat his words, and that chuckle echoes in my head comfortingly. Soothed somewhat at least, I push up from the table, but a sickness strikes me at my core when I think – '_Him_.' My blood runs cold.

"No…"

I dash between the tables and chairs, my heels clacking unnecessarily in my rush to cut him off – God help me, if Kelly stops me - before he makes his way through the kitchen hall. I breathe out "Oh god" in a panicky sort of way that actually undermines the horror that's bubbling into very real nausea. Andy stops and turns when he hears me, a perplexed look on his face as I catch my breath with my hand thrown to my racing heart.

"Andy, Andy--" I pant, shaking my head, frizzy curls making the back of my neck sweat. I approach him, face him, so that the kitchen window is just in my peripheral. "I just, uhm, I need to know that that conversation--"

His face morphs at once into a smile that promises and he taps the middle of his lips with his index finger. "All _confidentiale_, Pamalama," he affects a poor Italian accent temporarily. "What happens in the break room stays in the break room."

I am unnerved by the despicable way he sounds at that second, and the suggestive dip of his brow, but even more so by something that shifts abruptly in his features.

I can actually feel my skin paling into some color like wintergreen as he opens his mouth. "But inquiring minds do want to know, Ms. Beesly," this time, it's a British accent. Does he think he's Sherlock Holmes, unraveling some mystery? He looks at me seriously now, both eyebrows arching as he wonders in his normal, if not flat, voice, "We _are_ talking about Tuna, right?"

There are so many connotations and versions of answers to that question that it makes me dizzy. I can only dumbly move my mouth and look askance, dismayed to find Jim double-taking from his desk. When Andy seems to notice, his once true smile slides into something a little more knowing and more resembling of a taunting grin. "_Knew_ it," he says in that weird way he often says things, like in some kind of half-grunt. My stomach churns. "I _so_ didn't even believe it when Kelly was telling me! But now, oh man, I can totally see--"

"Andy," I begin warily, shaking.

"Oh, hey! Hey," he shakes his head and gestures to himself. "I am a steel trap when it comes to secrets, okay? And this key?" He pantomimes lifting an invisible key for me, and then pitches it over his shoulder nonchalantly. "Gone. This is the Andrew Bernard guarantee, Pam."

I know I shouldn't believe him, but I don't really have many options. I clear my throat and don't know how I manage a smile, but I do. He grins that toothy grin and flourishes out of the kitchen, the door swinging in his wake. I stare at the cabinets ahead of me, riveted by the shiver that drills down my spine. Like the last tails of a hurricane, leaving debris and litter on the shore, I feel it all rushing up my throat. Immediately, I dive for the restroom door.

Later on, when I've gargled water and I am sure that illness won't creep up on me again, I thread my way back to my desk behind reception, careful to avoid any specific eye contact or acknowledge any curious glances. I feel empty inside, with all my contents - physical and otherwise - dumped somewhere between the break room and Ladies' restroom.

That familiar padding on the carpet sounds to my left not long after I've restationed myself, and the hair on the back of my arm prickles when I see his fingernails out of the corner of my eye.

"What's up?" I try to sound casual, double-clicking on a Three of Clubs. Two cards leap into their places on the right corner of my monitor.

"I was actually gonna ask you the same thing," he chuckles and points innocently toward the Four of Clubs that is easily accessible if I move the Seven of Spades over the Eight of Diamonds at the far left. "I see you're sharing your fifteens with Andy, now?" He clicks his tongue, mock reprimanding. "You are slipping, Beesly."

There's something in his teasing that plucks at my nerves. I steel myself and double-click. "Well, it's not like my choices are exactly plentiful." I sound defiant and uninviting, and I can feel the hurt radiating off of him in that instant. Regretting it at once, I turn to pacify him with a swift half-smile. "Besides," I draw up a resolute breath, "he's not an entirely bad guy, right? He's actually kind of funny."

"Funny Ha-Ha or Funny Dwight?" He baits me.

I hear the scrape of jelly beans in the tray and I grin at my half-finished suits. "Somewhere 'round the middle? Funny enough to tolerate for thirty minutes or so." I roll my eyes briefly in his direction and am rewarded by a short, crooked grin. I think he gets what I'm implying, but it's not clear if he appreciates the indirect joke.

He waits a moment, then exhales slowly. "Weeell, I _really_ hope, then, that your burgeoning friendship won't interfere with the absolutely appalling prank I have prepared against him," he tells me in a clipped, practical voice, lacing his fingers together over the edge of my counter. I'm relieved. He gets it.

I sigh and shrug indifferently, finding our rhythm familiar and easy, despite the turbulence building inside me. The prospect of this entices me, makes my fingers slip shakily over my mouse. I try to play like I'm disinterested, which is increasingly difficult to do. "Only if you need me to help or something--"

"Oh, of course."

"Ugh! Fiiiiine," I drawl, as though put-upon, belying the giddy song that rises to full fanfare inside my head. As I swivel in my chair to face him, something catches my attention to the right. Andy's behind his desk across the room, smirking and winking at me in a none too subtle fashion. It causes my blood pressure to rise dangerously. His nerve puts me on edge suddenly, like it's a dare.

I look sharply back up into Jim's stubble and bright eyes. "So, what exactly did you have planned?" I hesitate, then drop my voice as conspiratorially as possible. "I _really_ wanna get this in by lunch."

When I see the crinkles at his eyes and the creases at the corners of his wide smile, my heart leaps over a few beats.

* * *

**Author's Note:** OKAY! I have been absolutely DYING to write some fanfiction for _The Office_ but I have just never felt anything powerful enough to write it. A few ideas here and there. Then I thought of this, and it kind of wrote itself. I'm really nervous about it, since I've never written for any of these characters before, but I think I did them and the timeline justice. I hope I did, anyway. This was really fun to write, as I really enjoy Pam and Andy as characters, so getting some insight into them during this period was nice.

Set toward the end of season 3, after _Women's Appreciation_ but just before _Beach Games_.


	2. Thunderdomesque

**The Perilous All Around Me**

_Thunderdome-esque_

When the elevator dings, she knows that the bright chime is exactly what her heart would sound like at this moment, if it could make a noise. Pam blushes into the receiver of her cell phone, her lip caught underneath her top row of teeth as the cute boy she's been dying to talk to like this for years and years and years reminds her of the friendship rekindled and the romance lit anew just last evening.

"Now, are you _sure_ you're safe to work today?" He half-laughs with a rough voice, still sleepy. She blushes harder. "I mean, you chugged over half that bottle last night, Beesly."

"Oh, shut up," she giggles. She hopes it's not too girlish. "You're exaggerating. I had, like, three glasses."

"What you _have_ is a record," he harkens back to a time that she sometimes forgets existed. "So, I'd be a liiiittle more careful, if I were you. Chili's might be making the rounds—"

"Stop it!" Pam chirps on a laugh as the doors open, and she's met with a boom mic in her face. "Oh! Uh, hey, let me—uhm, I'm just getting here now," she apologizes to the phone as she flashes a grin full of teeth at Camera Man Paul who sidles around her. It's an awkward tango as she tries to fit around his hardware and on to the floor. "So, I'm just gonna get that early stuff done and—"

"Oh, okay," he nods on the other end. "I'll be there in like twenty minutes anyway, so—"

"So— yeah," she grins and he grins in his house across town, she can hear it through the phone. "See you."

"Obviously." He snickers at her and she smiles, "Can't wait."

The smile on her face might break her cheekbones if it stretches on much longer. She closes her phone with a snap and turns to see Paul holding the door-open button, a crooked smirk in place as he observes her. Pam can only flush in response and shrug a nonchalant shoulder. "You guys, uhm," she nods to his camera case, the mic at his side, "packing up for the summer?"

"Uh, yeah," Paul clears his throat and grins. It wobbles, and Pam catches it keenly. The camera men aren't the only ones who've become good at reading people since this whole documentary thing started. "Look, Pam, I just wanted to say I'm glad for you. Both of you."

"You're not allowed to say that," Pam laughs awkwardly and tucks a twist of her hair behind her ear.

"Eh, it's summer, I'm off-duty," Paul waves off and pushes the button again to prolong their conversation. "But listen, I have to tell you, you might want to wait a couple minutes before heading in there." He gestures toward the Dunder Mifflin office, and she sees his expression turn a little sour. "Probably wouldn't be best to head in there all … well, all the way you are right now."

Pam knits her brow and pats her kinky hair in the back where her clip is fastened. "What? Why?"

Paul clenches his teeth and raises his eyebrows, and she has to smirk a bit. The boys have been really bad about picking up Jim's facial habits. She'd like to say she didn't notice until now, but that would be a lie. The actuality of it is that she started realizing it just a couple days after he had transferred and she'd thought she'd never see those trademark faces ever again. Her heart cinches in relief.

"I'm just giving you fair warning, 'kay?" Paul smiles and waves his palm at her. "I'm outta here. See you in a couple months, alright?"

She smiles and rolls her eyes as the doors begin to close, and when they do, she heaves a sigh of utter liberation. It's like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, like the karma of the world has shifted and she expects harps and a heavenly chorus to rise with dawn. Or some other poetic, wonderful stuff reminiscent of that. It's the kind of feeling that has her fingertips itching for a pencil and some paper and she imagines she could sketch the world.

So, even despite Paul's cautioning, Pam practically skips into the office, a song on her heart and blissful humming on her lips as she thinks about carefree summer days ahead of her and that aforementioned cute boy who should be buttoning up a shirt or running a hand through his hair to 'style' it right about now.

At once, however, she's greeted by what Paul's words of warning had referenced, and the clouds fall in and that chorus goes off-key. Karen is moving around with sharp and angry motions, her tiny hands slamming things into a box. At the edge of her desk, Andy hovers, a look somewhere close to disappointment and confusion wrinkling his face.

"I can't believe you're really doing this," he mutters when a little wooden box is pitched in with her other knick-knacks. A tinkling sound suggests she might have broken something. Andy grimaces on her behalf, since Karen appears a bit too flustered to care. "I mean … Utica is really—"

"Far," Karen finishes for him with a huff. "Far, far away. Far enough away from this place that I could actually be content. And, hey! It comes with a pay raise, too" she turns to Andy with what Pam could call a 'wild' look – the eyes of a woman trying not to let her rage and frustration get the best of her. "So, yeah. I _am_ really doing this. It's like one big, huge awesome decision that neither you, nor Michael, nor anyone else in this godforsaken branch can turn me away from."

Andy's eyebrows narrow and he squints at Karen's profile as she ducks to rummage through her desk drawers that Pam's already seen her open and close twice in the last couple minutes. "Is this because of Tuna?"

The top of Karen's head goes still and Pam holds her breath, presses closer to the wall that barely obstructs her from the other pair in the office. Karen finally lifts her head; Pam can see her bangs flutter as she tosses her head. "Excuse me?"

The Cornell grad appears to rethink his statements as he shifts off of her desktop and to his feet. "I just mean, everyone saw you guys in the kitchen yesterday," he reminds her, and Karen bows her head again. "It's kind of hard to _not_ come to that conclusion."

"Well, it's not about him," Karen rebuttals before Andy's even really finished with his sentence, and she stands to her full height again. She tugs at her top to refit it against her form as her back straightens a bit too rigidly. "I couldn't care less what he does from now on. This is about _me_, Andy." She eyes him and notices about the same time that Pam does that he doesn't seem to believe her. For the record, Pam doesn't believe her, either. "What? What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing, I..." Andy starts, then halts. His mouth puckers and curves to the side, like he's trying to figure out a really difficult math problem. "I just would've thought … y'know, more of you. That's all."

Pam knows that wasn't the best thing for him to say. She can see the fire ignite right under Karen. "What the hell does that mean?" Karen spits out, her arms leaping to cover her chest defiantly. "'More of me?' I'm moving on with my life, that's what I'm doing."

Karen vehemently points to the window letting the breaking sun in from the conference room. "Scranton is terrible. Michael Scott is the world's shittiest boss, ever. Jim Halpert, the man who pretty much lied to my face for _months_, sits right here," now her finger swings to the desk not 20 paces from her own and from Pam's, "and the girl he dumped me for sits right _there_," she directs Andy and Pam's line of vision to reception. "Personally, I just don't think I get paid enough to deal with all of that, okay, Andy?"

Once her tirade has been expelled, both Andy and Pam have to take a step back and catch their breaths. Of course, she knew it would probably happen this way. Who would want to sit there while the person you loved went on loving someone else without a second glance back? This office was built on that kind of heartache; it filled every corner and was filed in with every fax and memo.

But Pam would admit she briefly had a vision of peace and harmony between all parties involved in this staggering triangle that had constructed itself out of Karen, Jim, and herself. It lasted for about three seconds when she was talking to Jim about his break-up, when her heart and brain were so high on sheer elation of his presence that they tried to keep up the hope that happy endings did come true for everyone.

The truth is, however, that such a happy ending was not in sight for Karen Filippelli.

Andy reaches out and cups Karen's shoulder. The gesture is genuine, and Karen's stern back slackens as her face breaks a little. "Hey, I get it," he tells her reassuringly, giving her shoulder a small shake so she rocks back on her heels. "You do what you gotta do, I _so_ get that." He drops his arm to his side, and his hands slip into his pockets. His shoulders roll and Pam sees his features weaken into a half-hearted smile. "Just thought I'd give a last ditch effort to save the last fellow Stamford-Scranton remainee."

Karen's mouth twitches in the promise of smile in return, but it doesn't quite make it. "Yeah…" she breathes out and her gaze shifts toward Accounting. "Sorry to say, but it, uh … it looks like you're gonna be going the rest of the way alone." When her eyes look back up, Pam sees a hint of glistening at her lash line. She hates herself in that moment.

He draws up a slow grin. "The lone survivor," Andy comments with a shrug and a far-off look. Pride has somehow manifested itself within that second across his features, and Pam doesn't understand anything about this guy sometimes. "Kind of cool, I can dig it. One could say it's Thunderdomesque, even."

"You are so gay," Karen chuckles and sniffs, her index finger crooking as she dabs at eye. Another sigh propels from her, and she looks down at her box, then up toward the kitchen. "Okay, so … I think I have everything," Karen's voice is back to business as she rubs her palms together. "Alright. I'm out of here, Bernard."

When the smaller woman goes to grab her box, Andy makes to reach for it, but she swats him out of the way. "What? Dude, Kar, let me help you to your car, at least."

"No," she denies him firmly, hefting the box to chest-level with a grunt. "I've got this. I don't need anymore help. You've already done enough, Andy."

There's a look between the two that suggests something funny had happened earlier, but Pam's not sure she can read it. "Fine, be that way. Women's lib and all that, I see what you're doing," Andy nods knowingly, before he's pressing his arm across his midsection and lowering into a bow, which gets Karen's shoulders shaking in a quiet laugh. "Be gone with you then, good lady, into that sweet morning."

Karen isn't sure how to take his farewell, so she kind of half-grins with a roll of her eyes. "Yeah, okay," she agrees vaguely. A tiny wave of her hand underneath her box is given in goodbye. "Keep in touch?"

"Will do," Andy accents with Cockney and twitches his nose, like a silent sniffle. "You, uh … you take care, okay? If you need anything—" His voice is already on the verge of breaking. Pam has to stop herself from gagging.

The other woman beats him to the chase with a humoring chuckle. "Yeah, yeah, you're a phone call away. I'll see you around, Andy."

It occurs to Pam a little too late that Karen's already heading toward the place she's been hiding, and if she's going to be found out, she certainly doesn't want to be found out while snooping. So that's when Pam steps forward like she just came through the door, and she's positive she looks all kinds of unconvincing. She's reassured of this when Karen and Andy's attention lands on her, and she knows that they know she has been there for at least for part of their conversation.

Karen stops dead in her tracks, and Pam sees her tug the box closer to her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I, uhm," Pam startles; she doesn't know why she didn't expect Karen to say something. "I had … early work." Her eyes travel to the box, then back to Karen's face, which had turned into something bordering on furious in the second it took for her to glance away. "You're—- uhm, you're leaving?"

"Oh, no," Karen pretends with wider-than-necessary eyes. "I'm just taking all these things to my car for no good reason."

Pam bites her tongue. If the jig is up … she looks over to Andy, who is doing his best to not look like he's paying attention. "Utica?"

It takes Karen a moment, but she snorts and eventually looks down at her knick-knacks, "Yeah, that's real classy of you, Pam."

She feels guilty for having eavesdropped. But there's nothing she can do about it now. Just like there's nothing she can do about that palpable dislike coming off of Karen in waves. "I'm sorry," Pam quiets, and it catches Karen's attention quicker than a snap of her fingers. "Really," she amends with her voice a little stronger, praying that Karen may feel her genuineness. "I just … I wanted you to—"

"Save it," Karen bites in, her eyes closed tight against Pam's sincerity. "I really don't—I'm not here to hear that, okay?" When she opens her eyes again, Pam meets her gaze, and instantly she feels that discontent, that uncomfortableness that heralds nausea or something like that that she remembers feeling almost every day in middle school. "You know what? You should really just … totally forget about me and just enjoy yourself. I mean, I'm sure that's what you really have planned, right?"

Pam can't even muster a response to that mocking tone in her voice, and so Karen's expression tightens as she pushes past Pam and toward the door. Pam only half-turns to watch her go, and before Karen's made it completely through the portal, she hears her call out, "Oh, and tell Jim I said 'bye!'"

The door shuts with a creak, and Pam's blood feels like it stops dead in her veins. She's looking at the carpet but instead of seeing the floor as a whole, she feels like she can make out every little fiber, she's staring down so intently. A sudden burning stings around her ear, and she glances up to find Andy watching her almost painfully. Something hits her square in the chest and she has to cough to dislodge it. Pam clears her throat and reshoulders her purse as she moves around to her desk that suddenly feels far too spacious for her.

It's quiet for all of three seconds before Andy's soft footfalls make it around to her desk. Pam's fingers shake as she drags her keyboard closer to her and she wiggles her mouse to start her computer to life. "What?" She queries with a clogged voice. His mouth had just started to open, but he promptly shuts it again.

Andy inclines his head eventually, his fingers dancing awkwardly on her countertop. It reminds her of Jim, and she's sorely tempted to smack him away. "Look, Pam—"

"I don't want to talk about it," she promptly cuts him short, eyes riveted on her monitor. It can't load fast enough. All she's seeing is his worried gaze in her peripheral. "Karen's—she's right, it's justified. This is just…"

"C'mon," Andy waves her off. "Pam, you can talk to me—"

"No, I can't," Pam looks up at him sharply, her eyes having gone wide with seeming bewilderment. This sudden change seems to throw Andy off-guard, but she can't quite bring herself to care. "What would even make you think I'd talk to you about this?"

Andy falters at the harshness of her tone. "I just—I don't know," he struggles and his eyebrows furrow tight together. "I just assumed, y'know … with the situation, you might need someone to… dot, dot, dot?" With each 'dot' he taps his middle finger to the counter, but he keeps his eyes averted from her as he goes for blasé. "But, hey. Y'know, it's cool, if you don't want—"

"I don't."

He starts, then stops and presses his lips together, as though that was not the follow up he had anticipated. Nevertheless, he bobs his head once. "Righty-ho." And as he turns, Pam wishes she could feel that same relief she had captured earlier this morning, but it appears as though that effort has been exhausted.

This is made especially so as Andy rounds himself again and marches back to her desk, knuckles knocking firmly in his own personal hello. "Look, okay. So, yeah, I don't know the whole sitch," he begins quickly, before Pam can get a protest in, "but I know you, and I know Karen, and I know Tunes. And I heard what happened on Beach Day from Kelly, and yeah, I care. Whatever it is that's goin' on, I wanna know that _my_ buds," he pushes his splayed hand across his chest where his heart is centered, "are gonna be okay. Because, Pam?"

She lifts her brows at him to suggest that he continue, though she wishes more than anything that he wouldn't.

"You three are pretty much the only cool people here in the office," he completes the thought with a horizontal wave of his hand followed by another rap of his knuckles before he begins to tick off everyone with his fingers. "Like, Dwight's really weird and talks about bears all the time, Oscar's hard to relate to (since he's gay and everything), and Phyllis and Stanley are just old and boring."

Andy sighs a little too dramatically, his arms folding as he leans into her desk. Pam dips away unconsciously, her nose wrinkling at his proximity. "But you and Tunes, you guys … I care. So, whatever it is between you guys, I am not picking sides." Thankfully, he begins to back away at last, his hands displayed in a defensive motion in front of him. "I just wanted you to know that, before any dramz starts riling up in here. Andrew Bernard doesn't play teams."

Pam takes a steadying breath to keep her blood pressure and her temper down, a weary smile eventually lifting the corners of her mouth imperceptibly. "Well, thanks," she commends cautiously, her eyes taking in his slow steps backward. "I … appreciate that. But, really, sides are … they don't exist," she finishes lamely and glances back to her computer as her email loads.

"Uh, yeah," Andy agrees in an obvious tone, an eyebrow quirked at her suddenly. "That's what I'm saying, didn't you hear me?"

She looks askance at him, in all his pomp and brightly colored tie, and she halfway rolls her eyes. "No, Andy," she corrects like she's reashing something with a five-year-old. "What I meant is that, uhm—there's no reason for sides. I mean, I'm not…" Now Pam hesitates, as she finds Andy's gaze a might too scrutinizing for her tastes. "Jim and I aren't … like that," her hand motions toward the door that she swears is still rippling with Karen's fury. "We're just—"

"Friends?" Andy offers with a knowing grin that she instantly dislikes. "Yeah, okay, Pamcakes. I hear ya." When she parts her lips to argue his evident disbelief (and ream him for that ridiculous moniker), he gestures for her to stop. "No, seriously," he takes on a more solemn tone, and his hand resettles itself across his sternum. "I do. And really, that's all on you and Tuna."

Pam can already feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment of even stumbling into this conversation. She double-clicks furiously and stares determinedly at her monitor. "Andy…" she groans quietly, unable to dreg up a proper reprimand. Instead, her chest deflates and her shoulders slump as her eyes roll back toward the salesman who is openly wearing what could be considered a Cheshire cat smile. "No. Don't. Don't do that," she warns him with a quick point of her finger, already straightening in her chair. "If I see you doing that at all, I swear I'm going to remove that grin with my bare hands. Don't think I won't."

Tapping into a dominant reserve she had only recently become aware of seems to pay off, as Andy balks at her apparently convincing threat. "Ho-kaay," he falters and takes another, much more exaggerated step back from her desk. "Geeze, Pam, no need to get so hostile. _Someone_'s being defensive." With his eyes skimming the ceiling and back down again, Andy pivots and makes for the kitchen, a shout offered over his shoulder, "Tuna's really going to have his hands full, isn't he?"

'Mortified' would have her picture by it in the dictionary, she's sure, as instantaneously she pales and sinks deeply into her chair, a hand slapping over her face to shield her from the impending despair this day has just begun to unleash. Already, she wishes she could fall into the earth, back into that dream she had conjured not a handful of minutes ago. Something about angels and harps…

There comes another knock on her desk, and Pam is positive that she's going to beat the hell out of a grown man today. She jerks upright and, as she slips her hand from her face, she prepares to level the most dangerous expression in her arsenal should Andy be what lay beyond her palm.

It's Jim that's leaning toward her, a lazy smile across his face as he examines her gradually pinkening face with childlike curiosity. She can make out stardust and admiration lingering in his eyes from just that prior evening, while he wonders in a teasing lilt, "Soo, what is it I'm supposed to have my hands full of, exactly?"

Pam's heart flutters at the rough catch of his voice and the potential rife within that comment. She covertly steals a glance toward the kitchen and back, and it's clear he can't exactly read her. Daringly, she hops up and takes a peck from his parted lips, instilling in his features a look of awe.

"Just so you know, this is a secret, and Andy's in the kitchen," she readies him in a hush, her eyes ducking down and away toward her invisible paperwork just as the kitchen door swings open and Andy bellows a grand 'good morning' to the cute boy whom she is sure will be her favorite secret office romance.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I went back in time, since there is no angst like Season 3 angst. Not so much Jim/Pam angst, but the love triangle between Karen/Jim/Pam was just too awesome for words. This idea of Pam and Karen having a mild confrontation on Karen's last day has been haunting me for a while, and this was just one way to get it out of my system.

Plus, who doesn't love post-_The Job_ Jim/Pam? I bet they would be SO CUTE, UGH. To be a fly on the wall during that time period...

Obviously set the day after _The Job_.


	3. Fisticuffs or the lack thereof

**The Perilous All Around Me**

_Fisticuffs (or the lack thereof)_

It's another Friday night, and Poor Richard's is just as crowded and loud as ever, noisy with classic rock-and-roll pouring from the jukebox and the constant, mindless chatter of patrons scattered all about the establishment. There's united people pocketed all over in every corner, and all are carrying conversations at varying decibels. The Dunder Mifflin entourage is packed tight into the corner nearest the pool tables, a cluster of warehouse guys loitering around a booth inhabited by the effervescent Kelly (who seems to be riding a margarita high), the more-than-inebriated Meredith, the stony-faced Oscar, and goofy-grinned Kevin, both of whom are clutching dark labeled brews.

"Now, are you _actually_ lining up a shot or just stretching funny?" Kelly hollers between workers, making the red-headed woman shoot the customer service rep daggers out of the corner of her eye. Proudly, Kelly leans back in her booth, tipping her frozen rose-pink drink back down her mouth.

Pam sighs and re-angles herself ("Yeah, that's what I thought…" Kelly calls just loud enough to make her squirm), her arms lifted and pointed out in the way two different boys have shown her in the past. She squints and glowers at the white cue ball, then peeks over it to the solid purple that is poised for the perfect shot in the farthest left corner pocket. She draws the stick back and shoots it forward sharply. It's a bit too quick and hard (that is most certainly what she said), she observes with dismay, as the purple ball is sent careening just off-center from the pocket. As Kelly whoops riotously from the corner booth, Pam turns upon her with lifted eyebrows and she holds up the pool stick. "I'm sorry; did you want to have a turn?"

"Uh, you're playing my boyfriend, not me," Kelly spitefully replies. "But when _your _stick-figure excuse for boyfriend decides to wander in--"

"Oh, shut it," Pam rolls her eyes and turns back to the table before Kelly can finish, watching Darryl snicker heartily to himself as he lines up a new shot.

Meredith slurs over the dull roar, "Hey, uh ... where is that piece of hotness, anyway? You two didn't break up or anything, did ya'?" It could almost be considered a leer that the drunken woman presents Pam then, and it's all Pam can do not to get sick from the very notion that seems conjured within Meredith's mind.

She turns away with a headshake, looking visibly disgusted as she moans, "Meredith..." in some sort of sad reprimand. When Darryl sinks his shot, Pam flinches and sighs, bouncing the end of her stick against the tile floor in a mild show of frustration.

"Anyway, he's having a poker night," she provides after a moment to the group at her left, already knowing that they've probably tuned out or moved on to far more interesting topics. But Meredith's suggestion had hung in the air a little too long for Pam's liking, and it felt almost desperately important that she answer it. "Mark and he hadn't seen each other in a while, so I just...." Her voice fades out as she glances askance to find the majority of the group (as she had anticipated) either engrossed in other conversations or eyeballing Darryl as he lands another striped ball in the middle pocket on the right.

"I thought you said you were going to go easy on me," Pam bemoans his winning streak, hating the sight of her many solid colors versus his two remaining stripes that litter the table.

"I am," Darryl states smoothly and simply, and when his stick scratches against the cue ball, he flicks his eyes up pointedly to Pam. "Oops."

"Darryl!" Kelly squeals, distraught. "What the hell was that? _Pam_ is supposed to suck -- not you!"

Pam grins brilliantly and rounds the table to collect her Corona by the neck of the bottle, a quick swig of the light golden beer taken. "Well-played," she commends his chivalry and tips the drink toward the warehouse foreman in a show of thanks. He responds with the merest of smiles, already backing away from the table for Pam to take her turn.

She ducks to form that rookie arrow with her limbs again, but Darryl's sudden boisterous greeting of someone and the gasps of a few of her colleagues startle her up from her shot. Immediately, she wishes she hadn't looked, as her stomach falls out somewhere around her toes. Caught up in a manly handshake-hug with Darryl is Roy, and the abrupt self-inflicted tension between those congregated is at once palpable. It's embarrassing how quickly his eyes land on her; Pam blushes at her state and the obvious attention of her riveted coworkers.

"I guess it's a good thing Gorgeous didn't come after all," Meredith burps as she scoots out of the booth at Kevin's urging. The accountant's massive body is not far behind her as he gapes open-mouthed in horror at the large blonde man across from him, and he urgently mumbles something as he all but shoves Meredith the rest of the way out.

"Kevin, don't be ridiculous…" Oscar mutters, shame-faced by his associate's sudden terror. He spares a quick glance up at Pam, a brow raised for her, and she doesn't miss it despite how readily she looks away from him. With a bow of his head, he finishes his drink and shuffles out of the booth like those before him.

As more of the top-floor associates disperse, leaving Pam and Kelly collected among the warehouse workers, Roy meanders a little closer to the table and flashes a swift grin up at Pam. She struggles to find something similar in her arsenal of half-hearted expressions. She is certain she comes up rather short. "Hey, Pam," he greets in low tones, glancing back with a nod as Darryl gestures that he and a clingy, excited Kelly are headed for the bar. His gaze rakes back over her, and she flushes harder, the cue stick clutched in her sweaty palm beginning to wobble. "Wow, you look... _so_ different," he breath-laughs, somewhere between awe and embarrassment.

"Thanks," she takes the assumed compliment cautiously. "I guess. Uhm." As she falters and works to dig up any kind of starting point, Pam works silently to search out any familiar faces that she can. Alas, her hunt proves fruitless, and she settles her gaze back over her ex-fiancé. "So! What's, uhm-- How's it going?"

"Good," Roy offers a little too brightly, a little too chipper. It makes her wonder if everything's really that good at all, or if he just feels as awkward as she does. She genuinely hopes it's the latter. "Great, actually. I, uh, got a job working over at this auto parts place, and that's, y'know…"

"Great," Pam encourages over him, knowing that her head is bobbing much too quickly. "That's just... really great! I'm really glad."

"Yeah, it's great," Roy clears his throat around the awkwardness that is undoubtedly lodged therein, another flicker of his smile granted up. "So, uh, what about you? Out with those guys, huh?" He seems to take a cursory look around the bar of his own, and something definitely appears to strike him as odd. If Pam still knows him as well as she thinks, Roy's got his mouth puckered in that way when he seems to find something out of place or not as he had anticipated. Like curiosity and confusion combined. Painfully, it reminds her of that first, fleeting moment she initially broke things off with him – when it hit his ears, but not his brain quite yet.

Pam nods on, ridding her head of silly things like former romances and unbearable angst from times past, thinking instead of the half-gone Corona just within her reach. She takes the bottle and raises it with an exaggerated arch of her eyebrows. "Guilty! I _am_ actually associating outside of the workplace, if you believe it," she sighs heavily and follows it up with a good chug. The drink makes her insides clench and allows her a momentary lapse of comfort. "Oh, and! Playing pool," she gestures with the stick and toward the game she and Darryl have abandoned.

"That's cool, that's cool… So, uh," Roy stutters over himself, obviously hesitating and rethinking whatever he has on his brain. Finally, he queries as casually as his downcast eye line will allow, "No Halpert around, huh? Is he still with that, uh ... what was her name?" He glances up at Pam for reference, and she doesn't know how he misses her head-shake, the movement of her mouth to stop him. "That really hot Hispanic-looking chick? Carrie or whatever?"

His fishing for _her _name makes Pam's insides do a different kind of tensing and she moves to redeposit the cue stick in its proper slot. "Uhm, well, Jim is--" She senses movement, hears the scuffle of heavy boots to her left, and Pam looks up to find Roy to be scarce feet from her. It sort of knocks her into silence again, and this proximity makes her ears itch with simultaneous anxiety and embarrassment. She is struck with that feeling one gets when walking to the front of the classroom to give a speech or book report; like everyone's watching you and you're being graded very intently.

When she comes back to her courage, she resumes her head-shaking and wills her shoulder to rise and fall in a shrug. She's not that Pam anymore. She's the new, "don't-call-me-Pammy", cool-as-a-cucumber, Jim's-girlfriend Pam, and she should take things in stride. Like meeting up with her ex-fiancé (who tried to punch her now-boyfriend in the face only a few months ago) in a crowded bar. "He's-- Jim's actually out with some of his other friends tonight. And he's not--"

"Pam, hey," Roy peers down at her and his eyebrows narrow inward as he examines her. It's a foreign feeling to Pam; she doesn't recall many times where this man had ever tried to discern her. Yeah, there was that _other _guy who had often read into her every movement and could undoubtedly write an entire novel on all of her countless facial expressions, both minute and grandiose. However, in the years she had been with Roy, he rarely went to such lengths as to understand her through eyes alone. "Y'know, you don't have to be nervous," he mutters out, and she feels guilty by the way he looks back at Darryl, and then the exit. "I mean, I can go--"

"Oh, god, don't," Pam beseeches him and reaches to grab his arm, to stop him from moving away. "I'm sorry, Roy, it's just--"

But whatever it is 'just' remains to be seen. Outside their line of vision, a strangled yelp-slash-cry pierces through Guns 'N' Roses, and Pam suddenly has her hand snatched away from the crook of Roy's elbow. She quickly withdraws her hand from Andy's grasp, shaking his invisible remnants off of herself with a terrible wrinkle to her nose. "What the _hell_, Andy?"

"I should wonder the very same, Pamela Beesly," Andy tells her on with a motherly fashion, a dirty, accusatory look spared that might actually make her question herself, if it wasn't so absurd. "What are you doing over here with this dude?"

"_Excuse me_? I don't have to--" Pam begins to protest, incensed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who the hell is this?" Roy lifts his thumb to signal at Andy.

"I am her—her, uh, boyfriend, sir," Andy responds haltingly, his head whipping around to face Roy as he effectively and blatantly ignores Pam's exclamation of surprise. Despite the obvious height difference, he strives to make defiant eye contact with the larger man, torn between the necessity to appear unfazed and the natural urge to back away from someone shaped like Roy. "And who, might I ask, are you?"

Pam moves her mouth like a guppy out of water for a few unnerving minutes as Roy snorts only in what could be equated to amazement, looking sharply between the two off Andy's introduction and subsequent query. "You're a joke, man," he scoffs and hitches an eyebrow at Pam. "Seriously? This guy? Halpert, I kind of get, but _Pam_, really--"

"N-No!" She stammers out and ducks out from underneath Andy's intrusive, pseudo-protective arm that falls across her shoulders. Stung back into action at once, she twirls on the preppily attired Cornell graduate, utter shock and revulsion well-embedded in her bright and red features. "You have never and _would_ never even be in the running to be my boyfriend, EVER, so what do you even think--"

"I know what I'm doing, Pam," Andy cuts her off in a stage whisper out of the corner of his mouth, still refraining from paying her any kind of direct look, as he remains instead intent only on Roy. "So, is, uh, is this dude bothering you?"

"Andy..." Pam groans in exasperation and runs her hand over her forehead, kneading at a headache undoubtedly throbbing into life. She offers a pleading looking up at Roy -- who, most unfortunately, appears just as focused on Andy.

"Pam, you just say the word, and this guy is out on his ass," Roy does not bother to conceal the obvious contempt in the way he eyes Andy from head to foot, a sneer stretching over his face as he takes in the bright pink polo and dark sweater combo. It is quite clear that Andy is not in the sort of dress that he favors.

To his credit, as Roy begins to size him, Andy plays like the peacock he is dressed as and shuffles forward a single step. He hauls both eyebrows nearly to his hairline – a silent dare. Though, he deflates significantly as Roy calls his bluff and bows up, leans in toward him in retaliation, menacing in all the most masculine ways that becomes painfully apparent Andy is not.

"Oh, just knock it off," Pam chastises them both, grasping Andy by the forearm and yanking him back a few paces from Roy. He does not argue - smarter than she gave him credit for - but merely pouts. "Roy, this is Andy, who is _not_," she emphasizes plainly with another forceful, aggressive tug at Andy's arm, "my boyfriend." She glowers up at the brilliantly garbed salesman, her most withering look present. "Who is also _not_ doing this right now."

"Pam, I'm just looking out for Tuna, 'kay? For the _both_ of you," Andy blusters, both his palms held up in defense from Pam's scolding. He casts a sidelong look at Roy, and he does not appreciate the other man's evident amusement in the situation. "What?"

"Nothin', man, just … never mind," Roy waves a hand between Pam and Andy, then shakes his head and dissolves gradually into heavy chuckles. With his large forefinger, he wipes at a tear that leaks from humor, a boyish grin upturned on his mouth as he looks again to Pam. In that moment, she is as much a bundle of apology and pleading as she ever has been in his presence. It only serves to fuel his amusement. "Listen, I'm gonna go hang with Darryl," he announces to her, reaching to pat her shoulder (Andy begins to move his arm to swat at him, but Pam grabs his arm cruelly before he gets there) as he tips his head to the side. He takes a long look at her, and she can easily make out the nostalgia that oh-so-briefly mists across his eyes. Roy retrieves himself and rolls both shoulders. "It was, uh, good to see you again, Pammy."

The sincerity of his statement makes Pam's head incline, and she pushes up a similar departing smile. "You too, Roy. Take care?" She does mean it, and she tries to make sure he knows that.

And he does. He nods only once and withdraws his hand from his pocket for a farewell wave. There is a final, lingering once-over of Andy taken, before Roy pivots and begins for the bar, a bark of laughter sounding not long after he's turned.

As soon as he has left ear-shot, Pam pirouettes and shoves hard at Andy, who balks and staggers back a few steps. "Don't you ever do that again," she whispers, voice at a near-deadly pitch. "Do you know what he could've done to you, Andy?"

"Look, I was just making sure that you were okay," Andy slowly and calmly assures Pam, though his almost condescending tone only serves to make her that much more furious. "And see, it worked out! I mean, _that _guy's over there," he leans toward where Roy departed then flourishes with his hands between he and Pam, "and _we _are over here! No fisticuffs necessary! Oh, hey!" Something catches his eye and Andy half-skips around Pam to collect two cue sticks, one brandished for her benefit. "We should totally play a round! What do you say, m'lady?" His penchant for accents, particularly this Cockney one he adopts toward the end of his sentence, does not appear to do him any favors when it comes to Pam.

However, his exuberance, which Pam can only imagine stems from either relief that he did not have to pursue any further actions against Roy or that he sincerely believes he helped her, makes her sigh wearily and reach for a stick, her shoulders sagging just a little bit more. "Yeah, sure," she allows half-heartedly, very much feeling a new tiredness in her bones. She watches as Andy sets to clearing out the table and re-racking the balls, her Corona finished by the time he moves the triangle off the table.

She leans down and begins to line up her shot to break them up, and Pam hears him ask over the din of Joan Jett, "So, who was that dude, anyway?"

When Pam glances over, she sees him distractedly polishing at the tip of his stick with the blue chalk. Despite the dwindling kindle of her earlier fury, she can't help but feel it wane when he looks back up at her with that goofy, full-toothed grin. Pam giggles to herself (it's got to be the beer) and rears back for her strike, calling over the table, "That was my ex-fiancé. The one who used to work in the warehouse?"

Pam isn't sure if it's Joan Jett screeching violently for that fraction of a second, or if it's Andy. Judging by the sheer terror written across his face, as he melodramatically turns his head in slow motion toward Roy's direction, she's going to go with the latter.

"Your shot, Andy," she reminds him casually, willing her amusement to hide.

"You mean, that's the, uhm, the one who … who tried to hit Tuna?"

"Yup! One in the same. But, oh, don't worry," he catches her eye when she assures him, and Pam can't resist the idea of playing with him just a little bit. "He got banned from here earlier this year for kind of trashing the bar after he found out about me and Jim. So, I'm assuming he's on some kind of probation." Pam grins slowly at the way Andy's arms tremor while he lines up his shot and – god, she really can't help herself – she leans over to eye his angle speculatively. "I mean, if he really wants to start anything with you, he'll probably just do it in the parking lot later."

He audibly swallows, and Pam watches the cue strike a solid and before it hits the pocket, she indifferently queries, "You have insurance on your car, right? I mean, not for, like … accidents or anything, but if someone were to, uhm, key it or…" She avoids his strained gaze, thinking of Jim and wishing he were there to coach her as she coasts her eyes across the scattered colored orbs and calculates her possible moves. "…Say, take a baseball bat to it?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, since I had so much fun writing this, I decided to make it a little longer than I planned! Yay for collections! Anyhoo, I tried my hand at writing something a little more light-hearted with more of the DM crew, just to get a feel for everyone. I was worried I maybe concentrated a little too much on the Roy/Pam interaction, but I think it helped set up the ending well enough. I wanted to include Jim, but I don't think it would've fit. Maybe my next chapter will be more PB&J.

Andy and Pam shouldn't be so fun to write, should they? And this takes place in Season 4, just after _The Deposition_.


	4. Ho, Ho, Ho

**The Perilous All Around Me**

_Ho, Ho, Ho_

Jim tugged at his collar in an effort to fan himself off. Despite the blistering chill outside, the mall was unbearably hot and the raucous, pushy, and urgent patrons who packed its interior were not making his current situation any easier. He glanced to his left, rolling his eyes emphatically as he surveyed Andy tussling with the rack of women's winter apparel from which he definitely would not choose.

For some insane reason that was now beyond him, he had agreed to spend his Saturday afternoon browsing the bustling Steamtown Mall with Andy. All so the hapless dope could find a last minute "spectacular" gift for his Secret Santa recipient.

Nevermind that Secret Santas had been issued in the office nearly a month ago and it was now the week before Christmas, with the office Christmas party a mere two days away. Other than that, yeah, it was totally not a big deal at all.

He tried to remind himself repeatedly that what he was doing was ultimately for the benefit of Andy's recipient – Pam. When Andy had come to him with raised eyebrows and a ridiculous grin and the ultra-top-secret information about who he was given just a couple days ago, Jim very literally leapt at the prospect of accompanying The 'Nard Dog on his hunt for the "perfect gift" for Pam.

Truthfully, Jim couldn't quite bear the notion of leaving Andy to his own devices, fearing very much that his fellow salesman would scrounge up something … inappropriate, for lack of a better term. His mind's eye had conjured many different scenarios, none of them pretty, all of them ending with Pam's crumpled and distraught and/or disgusted face.

However, in retrospect, maybe it wasn't the wisest choice he had ever made to join Andy on his expedition. Thankfully, Andy hadn't yet made a foul or suggestive idea as far as present propositions went, but the guy was taking FOREVER to find something and anything he had already picked was just … absurd. And, really, at this point, Jim was getting to where he was planning to steer Andy right into Bath and Body Works to pick out some random lotion set so they could finally get the hell out of this place and so he could find his way into a comfortable evening.

"Okay, seriously?" Jim groaned aloud when he looked again, finding Andy brandishing a faux-fur lined vest toward him. "Did you even read Pam's request list?"

Andy looked up, startled perhaps by the aggravation rife in Jim's voice. "What? Of course I, uh, read the…" He stammered off on a nervous laugh, returning the vest to its place with a lingering stare. "It's just, it's kind of pretty, right?" He glanced back up, and Jim heaved another sigh, beckoning him toward the exit of the shop.

As they stepped into the hallway proper, both men drew steadying breaths when facing the flow of the crowd. "Your girl is a serious pain in the hoo-ha to shop for, Tunes," Andy remarked as the crossed the flooded aisle, toward (_thank the Lord_, Jim praised the heavens) B&BW.

"We're talking no furs, no clothes, stuffed animals, no jewelry. I mean, how do you even shop for her? What kind of girl is she?" They paused, letting a woman and her downtrodden-looking husband squeeze out of the store, and Andy whirled upon Jim with an apprehensive stare. "Or is she even a girl at all?"

Jim contained himself and slid through the doors behind Andy, biting the inside of his cheek to fend off any retaliating comments regarding Andy's own choice in women that sprung forth at the tip of his tongue. "She is definitely a girl," he assured quickly, snapping his head in the left at the faint smell of apple spice. Familiar and comforting, he immediately liked it, recognizing it as a flavor from Pam's personal selection. "She's just low-key, Andy. And besides, this is only Secret Santa. I don't know why you're putting all this effort into—"

"Because I want Pam to like me, dude," Andy interjected vehemently as they rounded the display of gift sets, effectively drawing Jim's attention. Off his concerned look, Andy bowed his head, and he frowned (pouted, really) at the set of Vanilla and Honey bath supplies. "It's just that sometimes I think I kind of … get on her nerves or something? She gives me this look when we're talking, like she's envisioning something really, really bad or violent happening to me. It's totally weird and kind of makes me uncomfortable."

Jim fought the urge to chuckle at how very accurate Andy's observation truly was, instead opting to rub at the back of his neck and dig up something noncommittal to appease him. "Nah, she's just, uhm …. Pam's just kind of difficult to get to know, Andy," he half-lied, purposely drifting his gaze away from his coworker. "You know, she doesn't really get along with everyone there—"

"She gets along with you," Andy pointed out with a hitched eyebrow.

"Well, yeah," Jim snorted. "I _am_ her boyfriend. I'm just saying—"

"And she likes Toby and Oscar," he cut in again, moving around Jim to inspect the tester for some peach-and-mango scented lotion. "I mean, they always talk a lot and they had that whole stupid Finer Things Club, which they totally wouldn't even let _me_ join!" As he blustered on, Andy's pitch grew more petulant, threatening to ingnite the ire of his associate.

Jim inhaled deeply and gave another firm half-shake of his head, desperately trying to reel in his instinct to make a casual, yet slanderous quip. "Look, for what it's worth, they didn't want me in the club either."

"Oh, for real?" Andy appeared genuinely shocked for a moment, before he pulled a face at the next lotion bottle and breezed by it. "See, that makes_ zero_ sense, Tunes. I mean, you're her boyfriend. You should be allowed at least, like, some kind of trial guarantee," he mused and crinkled his nose at the scents that followed in the next two testers.

"Honestly, they were ridiculously exclusive, and trust me when I say: I _know_ exclusive," Andy continued as Jim flicked through a few buckets of flavored lip gloss disinterestedly. "I mean, I participated in over half the extracurriculars offered at Cornell when I was there, and some of those clubs?" He granted Jim a serious look and an equally significant arch of his brow. Obviously, Andy was trying to make a point, but it was one that Jim allowed to sail over his head. "Well, you don't just saunter in with a frikkin' bowtie and some stupid china. You had to _prove_ your worth, and it was _not_ easy."

"Yep, well!" Jim interposed a little too brightly as he pivoted to face Andy. "Fascinating as this is, we should really just find her something and," he clenched his teeth, tipped his head toward the door, "get right on out of here! So pick something aaand we'll get gone!"

As though on cue, Andy grabbed at the next bottle, twirled it in a flourish, and lifted it toward Jim's nose. "Feast your sniffer on this, Tuna. Your gal much of a coconut woman? Or is she picky about her lotion, too?"

Permitting himself a tentative whiff, Jim presented an evasive expression. Though he had never been particularly fond of the scent, this brand seemed to strike his own personal interest, arousing in his brain a flash of coconuted-scented Pam. He made an effort to shrug it off. "Not too bad. I mean, I like it, so—"

"Ah-haaa," Andy winked rather fiendishly, and Jim hated himself at once for letting something so interpretable slip from his lips_. Good job_, he cursed his lack of forethought, as Andy waggled the bottle of lotion in his face temptingly. "Hey, now! We're supposed to be shopping for Lady Tuna, not for you. Buuut, if you_ really_ want—"

"I absolutely _don't _want," Jim waved his hand quickly in dismissal and pulled his lips in tight, working overtime to redact his earlier appreciation. "Nope, this is for Pam, and I don't even know—- Okay, you know what?" He restarted his sentence abruptly, pointing his thumb toward the exit, "I'm just gonna go … sit outside. You find something, then come get me, and we'll go. Alright?"

He barely permitted Andy a moment to respond before he pivoted, pushing between two entrants in his hasty escape. Cautiously, Jim eyed the landscape and approached a bench located in the middle of the aisle that was blessedly uninhabited. Lowering his aching and awkward limbs, he settled and shoved his hand into his hoodie pocket to dig up his cell phone. He flipped it open, hit the number three, and lifted it to his ear.

One ring sang, and his face immediately lit up.

"_Hello?"_

"Hey, you," he grinned.

"_Hey! I just tried your house phone!"_

"Oh, well, I'm not there," Jim offered, as though it were not apparent.

"_Obviously,"_ Pam snorted on the other end, and his grin beamed wider. _"What're you doing?"_

"Well, we're certainly nosy today. What's with the third degree, Beesly?"

"_Hey, _you_ called _me_."_

"Technically, you called me first," he teased, casting a look over his shoulder toward the Bath and Body Works. Still no Bernard, so he let himself ease a little more into the bench and into his phone. "And I'm just, uh, out and about. Shopping."

"_For what, groceries? You went yesterday, didn't you?"_

"Stalker," Jim mocked, pretending to be offended when all the while enjoying her giggle on the other end. "Nah, I'm just, uh—" To his left, he caught a brief glimpse of bright orange – the same shade as Andy's sweater vest. "Looking for some last minute Christmas stuff, that's all."

"_Oh? So, what else did you buy me?"_

"You are just all over it today," he laughed and so did she, and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of that smitten look before Andy got any closer. "What makes you think I even got you anything at all? 'Cause, you know, Santa isn't really all that fond of presumptuous young women."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large bag swinging for show. He fended off Andy with a flick of his index finger as Pam continued in his ear, _"Oh, come on! Everyone knows that's Santa's favorite kind of young woman."_

"Maybe not Santa's. Probably mine," Jim rolled his eyes at Andy's further urging, the bag narrowly missing the side of his face this time. "Hold—hold on," he stammered into the receiver, pulling it away from his mouth to give Andy a stern look. "Hey. I am on the phone."

"Eeyeah, I can clearly see that," Andy ducked his head toward the object. "I just think it's kind of rude that you would bail on our highly anticipated man-bonding so you can—"

"_Hey, is that Andy?"_ The muffled yet nevertheless surprised voice of Pam sounded between Jim's fingertips. _"Jim, are you actually out with—"_

"What—are you kidding me?!" Andy hissed, looking suddenly aghast at the soft sound emitting from Jim's cell phone. "You called the missus? Hang up, man!"

Jim ducked out of Andy's reach as he made an ill-fated grab at his phone, and Jim lifted it again to his ear with a nervous chuckle. "No, no! That's, uh—some … guy! I mean, why would I—"

"Seriously, dude! Wrap it up!" Andy barked, and Jim bent his torso as far from him as possible. "This is totally uncool, Tuna!"

"_He just said 'Tuna,'"_ Pam deadpanned.

"This is by far the least cool thing you have ever done to me!"

As Andy continued to ramble indignantly, Jim bit his lip and lowered his head, trying to clog his free ear with his finger. "No, this guy, uh, bought … tuna. Some tuna. See, I'm at this weird seafood-Christmas store." Definitely his least convincing fib – he could actually hear her palpable disbelief from the other end. "Let me, uh, call you back when I'm not surrounded by crazy, last minute shoppers, 'kay?"

"_Fine. But I want a full report when you do!"_

"Sure. Love you," he blurted hastily and closed the phone, dodging another lethal swipe of Andy's hand. "Andy, seriously, cut it out! Where were you raised that says it's okay to do that?"

"I was raised in a place where one dude does not bail on another dude while they are shopping for the former dude's girlfriend's Secret Santa present," Andy counted off with a prominent and disappointed scowl on his face. "That's where _I_ was raised. Where were _you_ raised, hm?"

"Scranton. Pennsylvania," Jim replied shortly and pushed up from the bench. "Where people aren't so bizarrely discourteous, trying to pull another person's cell phone out of their hand while they're talking to their girlfriend."

Andy scoffed loudly, his arms folding across his chest in a pompous show. "She could've heard and then the whole surprise of Secret Santa would've been spoiled." He stepped closer toward Jim, who readily moved back a pace, feeling his personal bubble infringed upon. "Would you_ really_ want that one on your shoulders, Tuna? Ruining Christmas for your lady?"

Though it ate much of his insides to do so, Jim managed to find the strength and serenity to calm himself, channeling a much more peaceful Jim to deal with the many levels of outrageousness provided within that statement. "Okay, first of all? I _seriously_ doubt that that would ruin Christmas for Pam," he slowly began. "Second: Andy, I don't even know what you got her—"

"Well, you would if you didn't just abandon me in there," Andy bit out spitefully, his head turned coldly away from Jim. "But, you know what? It's cool, Tuna. I see the way it is. Hoes actually come _before _bros with you, and I…" He faltered and sucked in a sharp breath. "I just have to accept that from you, I guess."

If he folded his lips much harder, Jim was sure that they would crack and bleed. "Don't, uh … don't refer to Pam as a ho, Andy," he requested in what was sure to be one of his quietest, most grown-up voices. "And yeah, you do have to accept that."

"Fine," Andy shrugged and tried to pull off looking indifferent – quite poorly, at that. "I do."

"Good, then. We're settled," Jim lifted his hands to ward off any further confrontation and he rolled his shoulders. "Let's go. I'm sure you want to get home to Angela or whatever as soon as possible, so…"

With his trailing statement, he began to wander toward the exit, finding Andy dawdling a few paces behind him. They meandered together in silence, the bag rustling and crinkling between them as they wound between other customers and noisy children, and gradually, Jim felt his heart softening at the downcast look on his companion's face. Sure, this had most assuredly_ not _been his ideal way to spend the afternoon – had it been anywhere near "ideal," there would've been something more significant than a phone call involving Pam - and of course Andy had been more than annoying in his over-the-top attitude and, well, his entire 'Andyness' overall, but really, had he given him any initial benefit of the doubt?

And to top it off, he reminded himself with a look between them, they had gone shopping for Pam. Andy was actually doing something _for_ Pam, the person Jim cared most for in the world, and he couldn't offer a little bit of courtesy in return? Was this not the Christmas season? And so he rode the wave of guilt, until it spurred him into action.

Bracing himself, Jim straightened his back and threw a wary look across to the sobered man beside him. "So, uh … what did you get her, anyway?"

"Do you care?" Andy pretended to bristle, but Jim knew better.

"Sure," Jim offered as pleasantly as he could, another (more obvious) glance granted to the bag at Andy's side. "Lay it on me."

Andy halted in his steps just before the exit, and both men stepped aside for the benefit of an entering couple. With a conspiratorial smile, he began to lift the bag along with his eyebrows - but at once, he lowered them and cocked his head, a squint to his eyes as though he were sizing Jim up. "I actually can't do that, Tuna."

"Wait—what?" Jim laughed, unsure. "Andy, c'mon. You can show me. I wanna know, and it's not like I'm going to tell her or anything."

"No, no, it's not that," Andy's mouth was working to conceal a grin, but it appeared as though it were too great a feat for him. Immediately, Jim became suspicious. He recognized that look, and the subtle shift of Andy's grin into a smirk had him recoiling uncertainly.

"It's just, uh … this is more of a present for the _both_ of you," he intoned, dipping his eyebrows suggestively, and Jim bit back a moan of agony at the reveal. "So, I do believe we will just save this surprise for a later date." Andy patted the face of the back, all proud of himself, and Jim absolutely despised him for it.

"Andy, seriously, you can just tell me and I swear I will act surprised when Pam opens it on Monday," Jim began to plead of his coworker, making a grab toward the parcel as Andy swung it just out of reach. "I just—I really, _really_ should know what you got her."

"Iee don't think so," Andy's amusement grew and so too did Jim's horror. "But I promise you," he dipped his head close to Jim's, who felt his stomach unceremoniously fall out of him, "you guys are gonna_ love_ it."

* * *

**Author's Note:** We have the Writer's Strike to thank for the huge gap in time during season 4 between November and April, yay! I decided to play with the Christmas season and try my hand at Jim Halpert! I love these boys, so I hope I got this right.

Jim and Andy go Christmas shopping for Pam. Set during season 4, between _The Deposition_ and _Dinner Party_.


	5. The Real Deal

****

The Perilous All Around Me

_The Real Deal_

"You're terrible. Worst boyfriend ever."

"C'mon, Pam," Jim groaned aloud into the otherwise quiet car. He looked over to her, finding her rigid in her seat, her arms folded and her gaze set ahead determinedly. Gingerly, he reached to tuck her chin, but Pam ducked her head quickly from his touch. "Please, don't be like that. It's not like I wanted this to happen."

"This is _your_ fault," she accused and allowed him a brief flick of her olive eyes. The narrowed brow, the clenched jaw, the lack of direct eye contact - she wanted to make it clear that this was not a pleased Pam. "We should be at home, Jim. Curled up on the couch with some ice cream and watching Sports Center or Project Runway..."

He nodded firmly, patted the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "I agree on absolutely all those points." Jim paused, redacted, "Well, definitely not Project Runway, but we're here now and—"

"It's all your fault," Pam repeated as her lower lip stuck out a little farther. She analyzed the lamp post they were parked in front of, hating the little twinge of annoyance she felt race down her spine at his puppy-dog eyes in her peripheral. "I really can't believe you. First, Michael and now...!"

Jim held up both hands in defense as she turned to him with angry eyes, his mouth half open in surprise off her attack. "Hey, hey! Look, I'm telling you, they tricked me, Pam. It's a conspiracy, I swear."

Her jaw shut tight and she squinted skeptically. "You're really slipping, you know that?"

"I am slipping," he affirmed with his best shame face. "And for that, I am truly, deeply sorry." Jim watched Pam chew on it, and she squirmed a little when his warm hand settled over her forearm. "Let's just … go in, get this over with, and I promise you that every night until the end of time we will do all that great stuff you suggested before." Jim studied her features and as he scrutinized her, she felt her brow and mouth slacken in persuasion. Damn him and his completely adorable eyes. "Okay?"

Finally, Pam heaved a sigh and nodded her head once. "Fine," she pushed a hand forward to stop his torso from leaning any closer to hers, her palm warmed at once by his chest. She couldn't deny that familiar flutter as he slowly grinned in that way that made her simultaneously peeved and undeniably attracted to him. He knew, oh, how he knew. Yet that didn't make her any less ready to put her pout back on as she warned him, "But I'm not going to like it!"

"Honestly, I would be kind of amazed if you did," Jim hushed and dipped his head in, his smile warm against her lips as he kissed her. She puckered back forgivingly and it was a sweet moment before she drew back, lower lip wet and jutting out. He laughed and released his seat belt, and in a matter of seconds, he was around to her side of the car, helping her out and ushering her into the restaurant.

His hand holding hers did little to calm the storm that leapt to full, thunderous force once she saw that ridiculous man in his too-brightly-colored sweater vest and the drab, grey woman at his side. Pam tensed her fingers around Jim's hand and he cast her a sympathetic sidelong glance. For a minute, she did feel sorry for him. After all, it's not like this was _his_ ideal evening.

But then she remembered: _this was his fault._ So she tensed her fingers even tighter and shot him a glare. Quickly, he folded his lips guiltily and looked toward Andy and Angela with grit teeth.

Andy rose promptly from the table with a giant wave of his arm, beckoning them over. If she weren't so frustrated with their predicament, Pam might have found humor in Angela's scowl of recognition and her subsequent snarl up at Andy. Obviously, this hadn't been Angela's favorite thing to do on a Friday night either, and Pam found it curious that out of the four congregated there in the marginally fancy restaurant, Andy seemed to be the only one in uplifted spirits.

"Hey, Andy, Angela," Jim greeted the couple as they reached the table. Gentlemanly, he withdrew Pam's chair. If he was expecting a thank you, he was sorely mistaken of course, and Pam settled primly and offered not so much as a smile in his direction as he lowered himself beside her. "So, uh, you guys wait long?"

"No, no," Andy shook his head on a laugh, barely covering Angela's clipped 'Yes' that filtered from his side. Pam shot Angela a challenging arch of her brow, to which Angela merely shrugged. Andy, blissfully ignorant of any malcontent, continued happily, "Only, like, two minutes, seriously. Gave me and the missus time to peruse the wine selection!"

As he slid an arm about the petite blonde's shoulders, Angela made no effort to hide her aggravation as she leaned out of his reach. Andy tilted a crooked grin her way, before he simply folded his hands atop the table, patting both palms boisterously against the cloth in a one-two drum beat. "So! Anyone up for some top-notch vino?"

"You shouldn't be drinking," Angela interjected harshly, a wrinkle at the bridge of her nose. "You're driving."

"Wellll," Andy let his tongue settle at the roof of his mouth as he bowed his head in her direction without looking directly at her. Pam wondered if he was thinking of the best way to address Angela without invoking her ire. "Maaaybe Jim and Pam would like something to drink. What say you, Sir and Lady Tuna?" The salesman flourished his hands toward the couple across from him as he (poorly) affected one of his patented British accents.

As the curve of Jim's shoulder bumped her own in a shrug, the mumbled 'I bet they would' from Angela didn't slip past Pam's ever-so-keen hearing. She pressed her lips together and fought the urge to roll her eyes, instead opting to give a quick shake of her head. "I'm fine, but if you want, Jim?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"Coolie, coolie, cool," Andy muttered and lifted the menu as the waitress rounded the table. "Haven't decided on my own eats yet, but Ange, if you're—"

"I'm not ready," she bit out and buried her nose down in the font, the swiftest of glares cast in Pam's direction.

As the uncomfortable silence drew on, so too did Pam's indignation toward her boyfriend. More often than not, Jim exhibited pretty stellar judgment. He was a smooth talker most days; Jim could typically get himself out of any bind, he could probably sweet talk any girl he wanted (Pam was living proof, wasn't she?), and he was more than capable of convincing even the most rigid of businessmen to cave and sign a contract.

So, how someone so dazzlingly brilliant and charming could be duped by the likes of Andy Bernard and Michael Scott within the same month truly escaped her realm of comprehension.

And then there was Angela to contend with. The dirty and unwelcoming lift of her eyes, the backhanded comments, and the none-too-subtle digs were really beginning to grate on Pam's raw and final nerve. Not to mention that the way Angela was treating the wait staff had Pam fairly concerned that certain "extra ingredients" might be added to her order. When the blonde railed their young waitress for bringing out vegetables with an invisible hair buried somewhere therein, Pam gave Jim her most pleading eyes, which he fully mirrored.

The span of his hand on her back comforted her, and she didn't have it in her to shrug away from his touch as Angela had done to Andy countless times throughout their meal.

Conversation, when it did come around, proved light and revolved mostly around work. It took a while, but they all managed to find common ground in discussion over the dinner party at Michael and Jan's. Pam allowed herself to momentarily forget Angela's encouragement of Jan's jealousy when the tinier woman began to spout off incensed rallies against their former VP.

"It was just obscene," the blonde's voice was tight with distaste, and Pam could sympathize. "I mean, there was a camera by their _bed_."

"Oh, they took it down when we went upstairs," Jim half-laughed and shook his head, looking to Pam with a smirk.

Pam shoved his shoulder with a cluck of her tongue and pierced a steamed baby carrot with her fork. Andy made a noise of disbelief and wonder, and the receptionist waved her vegetable at him with wide eyes. "Ohhhh, no! Believe us, it's true. It was still the tripod!" She laughed along with Jim over the memory, her nose scrunching up in distaste. "God, it was so …"

"Tacky?" Angela suggested with a slight hitch of her brow. Off Pam's quick nod of agreement, the accountant huffed and folded her napkin down on the table with a sneer. "This is terrible dinner conversation. I don't think we should be talking about those two when—"

Something abruptly caught the woman's eye and she cleared her throat, proffering a suddenly winsome smile to the other three. "I, uhm—-excuse me," Angela delicately apologized as she began to stand from the table, purse in hand. "I just have to..."

"Oh, are you heading to the bathroom? I'll go with you," Pam brightened immediately, still riding the high from actually getting along with the usually dour woman. It was rare that they had ever seen eye-to-eye, much less had a conversation that extended beyond passive-aggressive shots at one another. Pam would truly hate to see the effort put into this evening go to such waste now. Yet the sharp look from Angela had her hesitating as she slipped from her place beside Jim. The blonde's features paled and narrowed in recognizable disdain.

"I..." However, it seemed she thought it better and rationalized, as Angela then sighed and nodded her assent. "Fine. Come on."

With a hurried grin over her shoulder at Jim (he smiled back, clearly pleased to see her not totally miserable, he was so cute like that) Pam followed Angela's hasty strides into the Ladies' Room.

The restroom door nearly hit her in the face in Angela's wake.

To her surprise, however, the other woman whipped around at once, hands wrung tight around the shoulder strap of her purse. If Pam hadn't seen it before, she might have mistaken Angela's worried appearance as one of illness instead. It scared her a bit, seeing the accountant suddenly so … _human_ in a single facial contortion.

"Dwight's here," the blonde blurted in a curt whisper, a flit of her gaze toward the door behind Pam.

"I'm—I'm sorry, what? Dwight?" Pam repeated, nonplussed. "As in, Schrute comma Dwight?"

Apparently, she was correct, if the flat glare Angela leveled her was any indication. "_Yes_," she intoned and took a step nearer, that concern returning again. "I told him I was going out to dinner and then..."

"And then _what?_" Pam heard her own voice raise a little, saw Angela's flinching away, and she reeled herself consciously. "Why would he even need to know where you are?"

The guilt that settled in those naturally condemnatory brown eyes was unnerving. A plethora of memories flooded back to Pam in that second, comprised of Baby Ruth exchanges, bobble heads, and back-to-back conversations she had spied on in the kitchen.

It was all there, written clearly and plainly on the fragile features of the woman across from her.

Part of Pam seethed violently for some reason. The other part of her faltered, but she caught herself. "Why is he here, Angela?" Her voice was low and even, all meaning and nuance fastening the words together so that there was no mistaking the deeper inquiry buried within.

The blonde ducked her head away from Pam's gaze, and Angela fidgeted silently on the spot. "It's not…" She began quietly, but it tapered off into uncertainty.

"Oh, god," Pam breathed and touched her forehead to try and quell the heat burning there. "Angela, Andy is out there _right now_," she hissed, catching the other woman's stony, defensive eyes with her own. "What about _him?_ What about that?"

"What about him?" Angela echoed and stiffened. "You don't know—"

"Oh, come _on_," Pam groaned, shuffling back a couple paces as her arms protected her heart from such unimaginable callousness radiating off the blonde. "I'm sure the whole office knows, Angela."

Angela froze, and Pam regretted making such a terrible statement. "I … I don't mean that," Pam stammered and bit the corner of her lip when Angela's eyes hit the tiled ground between their feet. "I just meant—- you can't be serious, Angela," she huffed and furrowed her brow, trying to work out the what and the how and the when. How could she have missed this?

It was silent between them as another patron pushed into the restroom and into a stall.

Eventually, Pam drew herself up first with a heavy sigh, avoiding the accountant's renewed attention. "Fine, whatever. I'm going back to the table," she resolutely announced and turned for the door. Her hand paused over the veneer and Pam turned at the hip. "And if you don't come back, I'll…"

Her voice felt weak when Angela met her gaze. She could see the silent pleading there, the sudden rush of horror that no doubt flooded her. For a moment, Pam kind of felt something akin to empathy for her. Hadn't she been there before? Not quite the same, but still.

It was probably why Pam turned her head and averted her eyes, inspecting their reflections in the mirror instead of just observing the other woman in reality. "If you don't come back, I won't say anything," she quietly amended as the stall flushed and Angela exhaled and bowed her head in relief.

Before the blonde had lifted her head again, Pam had already maneuvered herself out of the restroom, her gait wide as she returned to Jim's warm side. She pecked his cheek as she resettled into her spot at the table, earning a bright grin of surprise and a kiss in return.

"Welcome back, milady," Andy greeted Pam with a half-bow at the table, and she did her best not to make eye contact with him. "Is Ange still-?"

"Oh, yeah," Pam cut him off a little to quickly and took at once to her salad. A clump of lettuce effectively filled her mouth as she glanced warily toward the restrooms. However, when Andy's eyes followed suit, she swallowed loudly and attempted to perk up in her chair. "So! Andy! Uhm, you-- have you made any new … uhm, sales?"

"What?" Jim queried with a questioning stare. Both went unanswered, as Pam remained seemingly riveted by the story that followed suit from Andy. Dinner continued as normally as possible, with the only interruption in the conversation proving to be Andy receiving a regrettable text message from Angela stating she had taken ill and would not be returning to the table.

_Funny how quick her fingers must work_, considered Pam, as the message had been sent not a moment after she had caught a glimpse of grey and mustard exiting speedily from her right.

"If you guys wanna go ahead, I totally understand," Andy sobered and repocketed his cell, his tongue lolling inside the lower corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry Ange bailed like that. I really thought she was looking forward to dinner…"

Pam didn't have the heart to tell him all signs pointed to the obvious contrary to his assumptions. Not when Andy was sitting there, his boisterousness depleted and the light having completely evacuated his being.

Jim cleared his throat after a gulp of his water, and Pam disliked it so much to see that mischievous glee behind his otherwise serious expression. She was going to have to let him down, wasn't she? "Eh, I don't know. You think it's getting late?"

Everything in her being told her to agree when Jim's bright eyes landed on her face expectantly. To agree and to get out while the door was still open. To take Jim's hand and jump up and run to the car and get on with the good evening they were supposed to be enjoying.

And yet, when she turned to face Andy, her heart sank. He was the image of rejection and downtroddeness, and nothing at that moment could've pulled her out of the event horizon of his pity party. She sucked in a deep breath and hitched a smile, her fingers stretching out for the lone dessert menu between the three of them.

She felt Jim's fingers close over her own atop the menu, and she allowed herself to look up into his wide, horrified eyes.

"What? I think I still want some dessert!" Pam laughed and grimaced together as he shook his head just slightly enough for her to catch it. To avoid his further eye-questioning, she looked across to Andy, who observed them curiously. "So, do you have anything to recommend, Andy?"

Jim's fingers tugged at the menu as she drew it closer. Pam bit her lip and gave another pull, and he released with a hearty puff of a breath. "Really, Pam, you know… we-- we have ice cream at my apartment, we don't have to—"

"Tunes, man! C'mon!" Andy bellowed and ducked his head to read the back of the dessert menu with squinty eyes. "That Breyer's stuff is total crap when compared to the real deal. Let your girl pick something out."

"It's Häagen-Dazs," Jim corrected plainly. "And I don't really think La Trattoria would have what you'd call the 'real deal,' Andy." He looked down at the redhead beside him, and Pam felt him shift uncomfortably. "You're really, _really_ sure it's not too late?"

The pretense was just barely hanging on, but Pam 'hmm'ed absently nevertheless and busied herself with inspecting the offered delights. She paused in her perusal to glance upward again, noticing Andy cocking his head awkwardly to better survey the lettering on the opposite side. Her heartstrings plucked and she swallowed the lump of guilt that had settled in her throat in that instance.

"Here." She passed the menu over to him with a weak, kind smile on his behalf.

The thankful grin that followed had Pam looking the other way, unable to take the perceptible innocence that managed to pour from a full grown man like that. When she returned her gaze, Pam found Andy leaning back in his chair, menu stuck out in front of him, tongue dipping out of the corner of his mouth thoughtfully in between musings over choices.

He was all Andy again, and Pam couldn't help it; she giggled.

Immediately, she sensed Jim's eyes falling upon her once again and the undoubted curiosity that lay therein his gaze. With raised eyebrows in his direction, a laugh still on her words, she offered, "I think I'm getting the cheesecake. You wanna split?"

Much to her chagrin, he did not answer her quickly. Pam sought his eyes out when he turned petulantly to the tabletop. His big fingers plucked agitatedly at the cloth there, while he seemed to mull over his answer. It was Andy who spoke first after the moment had gone on a little too long, a firm pound of his fist given to the table in front of Jim's anxious fingers.

"Dude, for real? When a woman offers to split, you split. It's insulting to her if you don't, duh," Andy advised with a wag of his finger. He tsked and leveled his attention once again upon the menu, his mouth turned sideways in consideration. "Rookie move, Tuna."

When Jim's dumb expression began to soften slowly into a smile and a brief roll of his eyes, Pam's chest warmed appreciatively. "Yeah, I guess. Sure," he finally agreed with a sidelong look to Pam.

With a knit of his brow, he scooped her hand up from the table between them. Pam tried not to feel guilty over the gentle squeeze he gave to her fingers as she saw Andy smiling at them from out of the corner of her eye.

"How could I say 'no' to the real deal?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, this is not my favorite chapter, but I really liked this idea. Hopefully it all came out good, there was just something that felt "off" about the writing. I don't know, maybe I'm being hypercritical or something.

Obviously, this is set in Season 4, probably about a week after _Dinner Party_.


End file.
